


The Opposite of Flying

by buffyaddict13



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, Podfic & Podficced Works, s03e09 The Crossing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tag for Episode 3x09. So, um, {{spoilers}}.  This is just Harold Finch reflecting on what happened at the end of "The Crossing."</p><p> </p><p>Despite his many aliases, Harold could not be further from flying.  He is the opposite.  He is sinking.  Drowning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opposite of Flying

**Author's Note:**

> I've written fic before, but this is my first try at Person of Interest. I adore Harold Finch and wanted to address the fact Reese seemed to consider Carter his savior, when I feel it should have been Finch. This is really just an excuse to write angsty Finch and try to stave off future beardy suicidal John.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

Harold sits in darkness.

Dr. Tillman has come and gone. John will live. He’s sleeping now, more or less ( _less_ ) peacefully.

The safe house is quiet.

Finch sits across from the bed, hands tightly folded in his lap. His suit is rumpled, his tie askew. He’s been in the same clothes for nearly 36 hours. He doesn’t care.

He sits in the darkness and stares at the outline of Reese beneath twisted sheets. Listens to the man breath. The chair is uncomfortable. His neck twinges, his hip aches, and he is _glad_.

He knows, logically, the pain is from his old injuries, but it _feels_ like the weight of regret, of _what-if_. Failure has its own weight, and it is crushing him.

God knows what it’s doing to Mr. Reese.

Despite his many aliases, Harold could not be further from flying. He is the opposite. He is sinking. Drowning.

He squeezes his hands together and inhales deeply through his nose, exhales. His knuckles are so white they seem to glow in the dark.

What if he had answered the Machine’s call? Could he have saved Joss? Could he have at least warned her?

What if he had accepted Samantha’s offer? Would the Machine have told her Carter was in danger?

Finch untangles his hands, pushes his glasses onto his forehead and rubs the bridge of his nose. His head pounds. His eyes burn.

He will never admit it out loud, not to Samantha, not to John, and certainly not to himself...but he is jealous of her communication with the ( _his_ ) Machine. Not always. Not usually. But this time, this time he is jealous. If Samantha had been in his position, she could have saved Detective Carter.

It is a foolish thought because Ms. Groves would never _be_ in his position. She would not use the Machine to save a life. She kills as easily as she smiles, which is why she is so dangerous. Ms. Groves _allows_ herself to be held prisoner. Finch suspects she could overpower him every time he brings the damn food tray into her makeshift cell. The whole situation is ridiculous. He’s a butler, not a captor. And Root knows it.

He shudders in the chair, leans back, closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about Ms. Groves now. He is weary to the point of exhaustion, of illness. But every time he closes his eyes he sees Joss on the ground, sees John holding her, his hands covered in blood. Worst of all, he sees himself standing impotently, doing nothing but watch her die. He is utterly useless.

Shame burns his face and he opens his eyes, blinking back tears of loss, of rage, of...something he cannot name.

If Simmons had killed Reese while Finch stood there like some noble fool he would have--he would--

What?

Kill himself?

Look for another “helper monkey,” as Ms. Groves so crudely put it?

It doesn't bear thinking about because John is still alive. Although it will be some time before Finch allows himself the small intimacy of using John’s name aloud. He doesn't deserve that familiarity now.

This is why he prefers numbers to people. Code to emotion. His eyes slip closed again and he concentrates on seeing keystrokes instead of Detective Carter’s slack face. He can program machines, _the_ Machine, he can break through firewalls, he can bend hardware to his will, create beauty with complex commands. He speaks English, but C is his first language. He dreams in HTML. He reads books to understand the world, to feel emotion without having to experience it firsthand. His beloved first editions are windows to see the world, not interact with it.

But that’s over now. He can no longer hide behind pages and computer monitors. He learned that the day Nathan died. Once felt, you cannot reshelve feelings. You cannot box up guilt no matter how hard you try. And Harold has _tried._

On nights like this Harold feels wooden. Stiff and heavy, as if he is somehow petrifying. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, certain he is turning to stone. Instead of feeling the weight of loss he is _becoming_ it. 

Foolishness, of course.

But in the dead of night he can’t help thinking the endless months of physical therapy worked. The constant pain he feels now is simply due to failure. The failure that glows in his mind like a blinking cursor, the failure that led to Nathan’s death, to Alicia Corwin’s, and Denton Weeks’. And now Carter’s. And so many more. The names scroll through his mind like ( _bad_ ) code.

There is movement on the bed. Harold looks, up sees Mr. Reese is awake. And watching him.

Finch swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. He’s been waiting for this. 

“Mr. Reese,” he says hoarsely. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I don’t--I don’t know--” he trails off, lost for words. All of his books back at the library, and he’s run out of words.

There is a long moment of silence that stretches between them, unspooling across the room. Finch tries again.

“I know Detective Carter was someone you--you cared about. We’ll find Simmons. _I’ll_ find Simmons and--”

“Finch.”

Mr. Reese’s voice is soft, as always. But there is steel in the single syllable.

“I’m very sorry,” Harold says again, aware he is babbling, yet he cannot stop. He has found words after all, but they are as useless as he is. “I don’t know why I just stood there. I should have answered the phone. I should have--have run and--”

“Harold.”

And the sound of his first name stops Finch cold. He feels this is a kindness he does not deserve. He inhales, exhales. Slowly. Once, then twice.

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

“Thank you.”

Now the tears come, and Finch wipes his eyes with trembling fingers. He is too exhausted for shame now. “What are you talking about?” He demands tremulously. “I couldn't save Joss.” He laughs, and it's an ugly sound, the sound of something tearing. “I _didn’t_ save her.”

“But you saved me,” Reese says, and he pushes himself up awkwardly onto one elbow. “And I’m in a mood where I’m not going to be as grateful about that as I should be.”

His mouth does something resembling a smile. "At least for a while."

Finch nods. “I...I understand.”

“Then you should also understand...as hard as it is losing Joss...it’s something I can come back from.” 

Finch blinks. “I’m glad to hear that Mr. Reese. I will help in whatever way I can. I will do anything within my power to assist you--”

Again, Reese interrupts him.

“Do you know why I can come back?”

Harold shakes his head dumbly, realizes John can’t see him. His mouth is dry. There is a dull, hot pain stuck deep in his throat. “Why?” His voice has dropped to the same octave as John’s.

“Because you’re here to help me.”

And just like that, a small part of the weight shifts from Harold’s back. It’s not much.

But it’s enough.


End file.
